by Leslie Leigh
“What’s the harm?” I protested. “I can familiarize myself with all of it, should you have reason to review the recordings…after the autopsy.”
“Fine,” Michael said, caving in. He was no match for both Mom and me. “But remember that it’s evidence. Do not allow anything to happen to it and do not tell anyone that I did this.” Mom smiled and clapped her hands. She really was looking forward to seeing what she’d missed. “Anyway, I’d be willing to bet that it was a heart attack. I know that’s not as exciting as your foul play theories but – believe me – most investigations yield only the mundane.”
“Speaking of which,” I segued, “did you find anything of interest in Mr. Hayes’ room?”
“Well, Deputy Lee recounted the pool of water near the sink. He really liked that theory – that Mr. Hayes had slipped on the puddle and ended up banging his head in the tub – until we actually walked through that scenario. The sink was a good ten feet from where Mr. Hayes’ head came to rest in the tub. Hayes was five ten, according to his driver’s license. He would’ve had to have been half-man, half-salmon to leap backwards, pivoting in mid-air, to land in that spot. It’s not impossible, but it’s sure not likely, either.
“After we dusted for prints on the sink taps, I ran water to see if there was any kind of leak. There wasn’t, so either Mr. Hayes was a very sloppy hand washer, or….”
“Someone left that puddle to throw us a curve!” I finished.
“Or…something. I’m not prepared to go that far with the conspiracy theory yet. Maybe he got a drink from the tap and slopped some water on the floor.”
“And did you find a glass nearby?”
“No, we didn’t.” Michael’s eyes narrowed. I could tell he was losing his patience with my questions, so I asked another.
“What else did you do? Because I don’t think Jimmy did much once the EMTs left.”
“Well, at least he secured the room. Mrs. Hartford locked it and it will stay locked until we give her the all clear. Basically, that was it. We dusted for prints on the door knobs, but with EMTs, two photographers and at least two witnesses entering the room, we’ll probably have a composite of thirty fingerprints.”
“And Mrs. Hartford has the only key?”
Michael made a sour face and I realized that this was probably going to be the last answer I would receive. “Mrs. Hartford assured me that she would take it out of general circulation, even from the staff. Why? Do you think the butler did it?”
Michael and Mom thought that was hilarious. I couldn’t help chuckling as well, but the reason I’d asked was because if it were a crime scene, you wouldn’t want anyone – Mrs. Hartford, Fiona, Tim, or whoever else works there – to come and go and possibly tamper with evidence. I guess it wouldn’t have been practical for Michael to padlock the room, in the event of a pipe leak or something, but his solution seemed to me to rely too heavily on the ‘honor system.’
Before he left, Michael retrieved the digital camera and video camera, and made us swear that we would be responsible, careful and discreet. He promised to keep me informed of the autopsy results.
Mom and I promptly hooked up the video camera to the TV and commenced watching the raw footage of the wedding. The sound wasn’t very good, but at least Margo had used a tripod, so I didn’t get that hand-held, motion sickness effect watching it. At the same time, I’d connected Bergman’s camera to my laptop and clicked through image after image.
“Who are those two good-looking guys?” Mom asked, pointing to a close-up of Gavin and Raymond. “Are they gay?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re not, Mom,” I deadpanned. Fortunately, the camera whiplashed around to other guests.
I felt relieved to know that Gavin was among the Hartford House guests who’d checked out. Deep down, I’d feared that although the wedding and business prospects had lured Gavin to Lake Hare, he might decide to extend his visit in order to torment me. I was especially afraid that he might appear at the house, or at Mom’s shop. I hoped it was the last I’d ever see of him.
I didn’t know what I’d hoped to find, but I wanted to go through everything. However ‘mundane’ it might be, these video documents were resources that might prove invaluable. In the meantime, I wanted to familiarize myself with the people, the interactions, and anything else I could learn, especially about Charlie Hayes. After all, these images were the last of him that anyone would ever see.
Chapter 12
It was nice to have two days off, back-to-back, now that the library was closed on Mondays for the summer. Mom left the house at 8:30 to open her shop, so I had the whole place to myself. I decided to take advantage of the solitude to practice on the chromatic accordion. Even when Mom doesn’t complain about the noise when I practice, I’m so conditioned to think that I’m inconveniencing her when I practice that I always feel a twinge of guilt when I play.
Since Mom had allowed me to stay with her rent-free, I’d saved up enough money to afford the initial expenses required for a rental, but Lake Hare rentals were sky-high due to it being the peak season for tourism. There would also be the expense of cobbling together furnishings, housewares and a million other things. It was looking like it might be months before I could strike out on my own.
I’d gotten an hour of practice in when the phone rang. It was my predecessor at the library, Marian. Although we’d visited several times to plan and execute the children’s Storybook Hour program, which Marian volunteered to host, we rarely interacted socially.
“Hi, Melody. Are you enjoying your Monday off?” she asked.
“Immensely,” I replied. “And are you enjoying your retirement, at least, the portions that I don’t monopolize?”
“Yes, I am, although I do appreciate company more these days. Are you doing anything today? I thought that maybe you could come over for a chat and a spot of tea.”
I looked up at the clock. It was 10:00. “That sounds nice. I guess I should shower if I’m going out in public. I could be there in an hour, or later, if you’d prefer.”
“Take your time. Why don’t we say noon? And I should tell you that there’ll be a little surprise waiting for you when you arrive.”
“Well, everybody loves a surprise,” I said, immediately feeling my stomach muscles clench. Actually, I hate surprises.
***
The mystery was revealed as soon as the front door at Marian’s house swung open. It was Molly!
“Miss Melody!” Molly gushed, taking my hand. “We’re having a tea party!
“How lovely,” I responded, allowing her to sweep me into Marian’s dining room. Marian was setting a silver tray with a floral-patterned teapot and matching cups. She turned and gave me a hug.
“I hope you liked your surprise,” Marian smiled.
“It’s a wonderful surprise,” I said, as we seated ourselves. “Gosh, Molly, I haven’t seen you in quite a while. How are you doing?”
“I’ve been fine,” she grinned. “Miss Marian has been taking care of me. She’s my babysitter and my best friend!”
“Why, thank you, Molly,” Marian said. Looking at me, she winked. “Cheapest babysitter in town, I am. But I don’t mind. Molly has been a delight to have around.”
“My loss was your gain. Good. I was hoping that she was okay since the….”
Marian looked back at Molly, engaging her in the conversation. “Oh? Molly, you haven’t seen Melody since the accident?”
Molly shook her head. “Nope. Mom says I shouldn’t spend so much time at the library.”
Marian tried to smooth things over. “She probably just wants you to get out and have some fun this summer, that’s all.” She looked at me. “Molly was quite sad after the accident, weren’t you, Molly?”
Molly nodded. “I really liked Aunt Amanda. She was always nice to me.”
I think that my jaw might have dropped. I stared in disbelief at Marian, and then looked at Molly. “Aunt Amanda,” I repeated. “She must have been very close to your mom, huh?�
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She nodded again, staring into her teacup. “They were best-est friends,” Molly said. “And Aunt Amanda was so cool. She drove a car the color of an orange Popsicle, and it was very fast.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. How could a woman with a part-time job in the accounting department at Cooke Paper Products afford a sporty car? Oh, yeah. I’d almost forgotten her moonlighting activities. Or did I have that backwards: was she moonlighting in the accounting department? “You know, I never met Amanda, Molly, but I saw a picture of her once. She looked very pretty.”
“She was beautiful!” Molly gushed. “And she was rich, too! She always dressed so nice, and she would take me and my mom shopping, too. She’d say, ‘C’mon, Cat, let’s go on a spree and change your look!’ And Mom would say she couldn’t ‘cause she was broke. Mom’s always broke. But Aunt Amanda would just say, ‘It’s my treat,’ or “You can pay me back later.’ She was so nice.”
An investigator probably wouldn’t have led a child on, but I wasn’t a professional investigator. I was violating no law or professional ethical standards, but I did feel a little guilty. Molly seemed to brighten up a bit talking about her ‘aunt,’ but Marian and I managed to lead the conversation into lighter areas. We chatted for about an hour.
“Well,” I said, “I guess I should be going. I have to get back to my accordion practice. Marian, Mr. Van Dyke gave me this beautiful accordion for helping him with his store sale. But it’s a completely different fingering system, so I need to work at. As soon as I can, I’d like to show him that I’ve mastered it.”
“I understand, dear,” Marian replied. Her face lit up. “You know, I just had an idea! For one of the upcoming Storybook Hours, I was thinking of reading the ‘Stormalong’ stories.”
“Would that be Alfred Bulltop Stormalong, the sailor?” I laughed. I’d never read those stories, but I once heard a delightful radio version that John Candy narrated with musical accompaniment by the group NRBQ.
“The very same. Well, your talking about the accordion just made me think: would you be willing to provide some music while I read? We could add a dimension to the experience!”
“I think that’s a grand idea, Marian! I can brush up on my reels and sea shanties. Heck, I even know ‘The Sailor’s Hornpipe’ by heart!”
The three of us walked to the front door. “Well, let’s say the week after this week then. Maybe we could even do a practice run-through beforehand.”
“Sounds good. You know our schedule better than I do, but it seems that Wednesdays starting at 3:00, patrons become scarce.”
“We’ll play it by ear, dear, but I’ll keep that in mind. Ooh, this will be fun!” She looked down at Molly who stood waiting for a hug. “Are you going to say goodbye to Melody, sweetheart?”
I accepted her hug and gave her one in return. “Very good to see you again, Molly. Let’s do this again sometime.” Molly bobbed her head excitedly. Marian stepped out with me, telling Molly that she’d be right back and to pick out a book they could read together.
“So,” she said quietly, “I thought you might be interested in hearing about her Aunt Amanda. Didn’t you say that Molly’s mother claimed that she barely knew her?”
“That’s what she told me. Just ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ and nothing more between them. Of course, I suspected they were closer than that, but this helps confirm my hunch. I haven’t given up on pursuing this matter, even if the prosecutor has. Did you hear? They ruled Amanda’s death an accident. No charges.”
“I did hear that on the news, and just about that much detail. So you suspect there’s more to the story than that?”
“Much more, Marian,” I said, “and Molly’s mother knows more than she’s telling. She could put some of the pieces of this puzzle together, but she’s lying low, as they say.”
“Well, I thought you might be interested in hearing that little tidbit directly from Molly,” Marian said.
“So you’ve been spending a lot of time with Molly?”
“Most of May,” she nodded. “I’d expected that my hours would dwindle once hunting season ended,” she winked, an acknowledgement of Cat’s own little ‘peak season.’ “But business must be good in her line of work. I babysat Molly three nights last week, not to mention while Cat was working her day job.”
We both fell silent, shaking our heads. “It’s a risky business,” I offered.
“Always a demand, ever since the world began,” Marian chimed in.
“Gotta go,” I said, giving her a hug. “Thanks for having me over. I’ll contact you about the ‘Stormalong’ project, okay?”
It was a five-block walk to Mom’s place. Concertina melodies serenaded me along the way. There’s nothing like a new project to put a spring in your step.
***
By the time I got back, however, I postponed practice and instead picked up where Mom and I had left off with the wedding video. Mom had actually dozed off watching it, and I was more focused on the photos. There was still a lot to go through, but then I had a belated brainstorm.
The reception had kicked off around 2:00, and I guessed that Charlie had met his demise between 4:00 and 4:30. If I could just focus on that period of time – and all the media included date and time signatures –I could pare down the amount of viewing that would be necessary. True, there might be something of importance in the earlier material, perhaps as a contrast, but what can I say? I’m of the short-attention-span generation; we prefer clips to full-length features.
Beginning at 4:00, I watched intently, prepared to slow the speed if something leapt by. Unfortunately, I was at the mercy of the camera operator, whose attention deficit was worse than my own. Margo did well with the stationary set-up, especially at the wedding, where she could zoom in or out as necessary with no jarring consequences in the camera movement. This worked well capturing Pastor Paul’s introduction and the couple’s vows. But things became more free-form at the reception, and she apparently tried covering it all, jumping from snippets of dinner conversations, over to the dance floor, then back to the head table, and occasionally even following random men whom she must have found attractive. It was messy, to say the least.
Then, at 4:20, the focus was on Charlie and Tiffany dancing. The camera wasn’t close enough to pick up their conversation, plus the music was playing – I couldn’t even recognize the tune; it sounded like some bouncy Lawrence Welk piece, but I’m guessing that the camera’s movement distorted it – but the couple was dancing near the edge of the dance floor, so she had an unobstructed view.
I grabbed my laptop and sorted the photo gallery by time, hoping to find matching shots, but Margo and Bergman were not on the same sheet of music, so to speak. Personally, I would’ve thought that the bride and groom were deserving of the most coverage – especially if they were paying for the service – but perhaps they were shooting for the widest possible coverage of the entire reception. At 4:20, Bergman was in the Hartford House kitchen, taking shots of the wedding cake. It looked as though he had been given a sneak preview as the cake cart was rolled out from a walk-in cooler.
At 4:22, the song ends. Charlie takes Tiffany’s hand and starts leading her back to the table, but up pops Raymond Heller. It looks as if he requests a dance. Tiffany stops, holds her ground, evidently favoring this offer while Charlie makes a sweeping gesture of approval, stumbling slightly in the process.
At 4:23, the camera stays on the handsome young couple until they’re obscured by the other dancers. Fiona walks past the camera toward Charlie. It looks like Charlie might have called out to her. He’s talking with someone, but whoever it was is out of the frame. Charlie smiles and starts to take out his wallet, but stops in mid-motion and nods. He isn’t speaking anymore, but his eyes remain staring in the same direction; his eyes look dead, as if he’s tired or contemplating something while in a drunken stupor.
His stupor is interrupted by the appearance of Gordon Haskell, who sways as he approaches, bumping into Charlie
who pushes him away. Charlie ignores Gordon and continues staring ahead, in the same direction as when he was last conversing. He starts to walk in that direction, off camera, but is stopped by Gordon, who is tugging on Charlie’s sleeve. Charlie whips around facing Gordon. Charlie’s body is tense, his arms are down at his side, as if he’s ready for a showdown, and Gordon backs away, holding up his hand in a self-defensive posture as he retreats.
And then Charlie is gone. Margo had obviously picked up on the altercation and her camera lingered on Gordon who, as he recovered from the shock of Charlie’s rage, transformed before my eyes, his facial expression changing from surprise and intimidation to indignation to visible rage. And then Gordon, too, moved off screen and, I gathered, in Charlie’s direction.
Rather than follow Gordon, however, the camera swung back to the dance floor to capture the reaction of Tiffany and Raymond, who continued their dance even as they turned toward the flare-up. Both began laughing as they held each other, amused by the antics of the two older men, but that was quickly forgotten as the dance continued.
The video did reveal the presence of not only Tiffany and Raymond, but also Gavin and a handful of the town’s ‘regulars,’ all of whom could now be eliminated from the list of potential suspects, if indeed Charlie’s death was not an accident. Not that I thought that Gavin was a prime suspect, but if his entrepreneurial overtures to Charlie had been rebuffed in an undiplomatic manner, who could say what the reaction might be, especially after investing in an expensive gift?
And, of course, it would have still been possible for Tiffany and/or Raymond to have arranged for a third party to assault Charlie. In some ways, that option would have involved more risk of exposure, but Tiffany had proven herself to be pragmatic when it came to weighing the losses and gains involving Charlie, his money and herself.